


Hearts Left Behind

by juliafied



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Gen, Grief/Mourning, One Shot, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27502294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliafied/pseuds/juliafied
Summary: Post-Adamant, Leliana is joined by an old friend to toast the memory of the fallen Alistair. One shot that nobody asked for.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Tabris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Hearts Left Behind

“We will toast to his memory.”

The Inquisitor nodded solemnly in reply and turned to walk away, creaks from her footsteps echoing through the rookery. Sitting down at the wide wooden table burdened with reports and correspondence, Leliana let out a long, measured breath, palms to her forehead, head heavy in her hands.

He would have been thirty-one in Wintersend, only four years her junior. She snorted humourlessly, not having realized that a decade later, her mind still retained the date of his birthday. _Hers_ too, falling the day before Satinalia. Once a bard, always a bard, Leliana supposed.

She rose, trying to swallow away the hard mass that had appeared without invitation in her throat. They hadn’t been friends, exactly. Even now, during his short stay at Skyhold, she had only spoken to him once, briefly; reconnaissance for Halamshiral and then the siege at Adamant had taken up most of her time. He had seemed exhausted, drawn, and she had noticed dark shadows and faint creases around his eyes that weren’t there before. Age and loss had sobered him, though he had still managed to make her chuckle with his self-deprecating humour. He was a good man. The years had dimmed none of his kindness.

Leliana shivered, the winter chill in the air clinging to her. She pulled her cloak tightly around her and descended the stairs to her quarters, where one of the castle staff had lit a crackling fire, recently, judging by the lack of ashes. Reaching into a basket under the bed, Leliana pulled out a bottle of Fereldan whisky and popped off the cork, pouring the caramel-coloured liquid into a copper mug she kept on the little table in the room. _Merde_ , if she was going to remember Alistair, might as well toast to the memories, as she had promised.

A few pours into her reminiscing, there was a soft knock on the door. Not waiting for a response from Leliana, the door opened.

“So, both the Fereldan Wardens are dead,” said Morrigan quietly in her characteristic musical lilt, by way of greeting, and swiftly closed the door behind her. “I held no great love for Alistair, but, I admit, I am saddened by his death. Few people have known me so long.”

Leliana sighed wearily as the witch sat gracefully on the chair in the corner of the room, beside where Leliana sat on the bed. She held no great love for Morrigan, either. “I never thought you to be one for nostalgia, Morrigan.”

A decade ago, Morrigan might have responded with a barb, but now, she only smiled sadly. “‘Tis a surprise for me as well. Age makes fools of us all.”

They sat thusly for a few moments, in sober silence. Taking another swig from her cup, Leliana gestured to the whisky. “I could have another glass fetched…”

Morrigan reached for the bottle. “Worry not.” She tilted the neck of the bottle to her mouth, and grimaced as she swallowed. “I fear I have been spoiled by Orlesian wine.”

At that, Leliana found it in herself to laugh. “To think a Witch of the Wilds would one day advise the empress Orlais at court while I learned to like the taste of Ferelden whisky in a remote fortress.”

The witch in question cracked a wry smile and poured more of the foul-smelling liquid into Leliana’s cup. “‘Tis worth drinking to, I think.”

The copper mug and the neck of the bottle clinked. Silence blanketed them once more. Out of the window, it began to snow; Morrigan stoked the flame of the fire with a flick of her wrist.

“He was funny, wasn’t he?” offered Leliana, after a time. She had been thinking of a day when Alistair had spent the afternoon telling stories and jokes to children in Lothering. Anything to distract them from the despondence of the situation. Their parents had thanked them later.

Habitually, a scowl crossed Morrigan’s face. “If you have no sense of humour, perhaps,” she retorted, and softened. “He was kind. Foolishly, irritatingly so… but one is keener to laugh at terrible jokes when the delivery is endearing, I suppose.”

“Keener to laugh at _him_ , in your case,” Leliana added meaningfully.

Morrigan propped her head on her knees and took her chin in her hand pensively. “I will not pretend that our relationship was particularly friendly.” She trailed off, looking out at the snowflakes falling outside. “But I confess that I was too proud, then, to admit I became quite fond of him by the end, in spite of everything.”

Leliana felt a tinge of regret in Morrigan’s words. “I think he knew that,” she gently offered.

“Perhaps.”

Another silence. Leliana brandished her cup in Morrigan’s direction; another pour, another clink. The air grew colder, and the spymaster tossed a log into the hearth.

Morrigan began, this time hesitantly, more sorrow in her voice than Leliana had ever heard before. “I… did Kallian ever tell you about my offer in the days before Denerim?”

The bard shook her head, unsure of Morrigan’s meaning.

“There was a ritual that I could have… performed. I cannot lie, it was dark magic, concocted by my mother, which should have dissuaded me from ever attempting it. Alas, I was naïve then and thought myself skilled enough to bear it, and I proposed it to her.”

“What would it have done?”

Morrigan hesitated. “‘Tis an ancient ritual, one that binds the spirit of an old god to that of an unborn child. And… sparing the life of a Grey Warden who slays such a god.”

Leliana blinked and avoided the obvious question, offering instead, “She refused.”

“She did.”

They had never mourned her properly. Morrigan had been conspicuously absent from the battle with the Archdemon and thus the funeral where Queen Anora said a few words about a woman she knew nothing of. In the decade since, Leliana had gotten over this sore point in her relationship with Morrigan, so much so that she had declined to mention it when the witch had inexplicably appeared at Skyhold as an advisor to the Inquisitor after the ball at Halamshiral. Kallian’s other friends and followers had dispersed quickly after the funeral, the force that had bound them together for the better part of a year having winked out like a candle in the wind. Alistair, for one, had borne the pain valiantly, and, conscious enough to recognize that his presence in Ferelden was not wanted by the new queen, fled to parts unknown. Leliana herself had barely been able to focus at the funeral, feeling herself floating somewhere far away for the duration of her stay in the Fereldan court, and distracted herself with a journey to Orlais soon after. In time, that impossible year became fainter and fainter, until it became just another sentence in the personal history she would tell to anyone who spoke to the Left Hand of the Divine. This new information did not change anything, Leliana supposed.

It seemed Morrigan’s thoughts echoed Leliana’s own. “It matters little, now. We have lived too long and suffered too much to trouble ourselves with regrets. I only wonder if,” and tears now welled along her dark lash line, “they might have been happy.”

Not realizing herself capable of such a thing, it was now Leliana’s turn to feel tears forming in her eyes. “He never mentioned anyone else while he was here.”

Morrigan looked out the window once more, and pronounced, “One does not easily forget the exquisite suffering of loving, and losing, such an extraordinary other.”

Leliana did not wish to ask who Morrigan was thinking of with these words. She hoped the witch would not inquire the same of her. The two women sat for quite some time, each haunted by the ghosts of their own extraordinary people, in a pensive silence broken only by the sound of whisky being poured and swallowed. Only once the sky had grown dark, once the last log of firewood had been burned, and once the sharp edge of grief wedged between them, old and new, had been dulled by time and alcohol, did Leliana raise her cup and feel compelled to utter,

“To Alistair, Grey Warden and Hero of the Fifth Blight. To an honourable man, brave warrior, and kind friend. The world is worse off for not having him in it. May he find eternal peace,” and here her voice hitched, “and the company of his great love at the Maker’s side.”

A final clink, a final swallow, and –

“To Alistair.”

**Author's Note:**

> Straight up, why did it take me getting inspired by a random comment on this Youtube video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qN7KERLMr9o to get back into posting? 
> 
> Also, why am I so obsessed with grief and dealing with it by drinking? 
> 
> If anyone has the answer to these questions, please let me know...


End file.
